


Trust Fall

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Cock Warming, Dom/sub Undertones, Edgeplay, Fluffy Ending, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Morning Sex, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Play, Subdrop, Trust, Undernegotiated Kink, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 04:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21237992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: Try as he might, Barry can't hide how much he gets off on being pushed to his limits and beyond.





	Trust Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Between a Rock and a Hard Place](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429084) by [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw). 

> We now interrupt our regularly scheduled program for.... *drumroll* ... the dirtybadwrong Coldflashwave Kinktober PWP no one ever asked for!
> 
> Basically, I've been meaning to write this follow-up to ["Between a Rock and a Hard Place"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429084) since January, but somehow it took me until the very end of Kinktober to post it. 
> 
> **Please beware of the tags!** I promise I will soon be back with my usual brand of tropey romantic fluff but this is... very much not it, so if that is what you're here for, proceed with caution. (If you do proceed, however, I hope that you enjoy the hardcore kinky porn with a dash of fluff at the end! :D)

He wakes up feeling _full_. 

In the lingering haze of sleepiness, it registers as a weird sensation – not unpleasant, almost comfortable, just... weird. 

Seconds trickle by until his mind reboots enough to place it, the memories from last night coming back to him in a rush: Mick's heavy body stretched out on top of him, still buried ball-deep inside his ass when Barry had come down from his orgasm high. He'd tried to wiggle away, but Mick's hands had held him in place, firm but soothing. 

"Think you can fall asleep like that?" he'd asked.

Barry was going to protest because he was sticky and dirty, and Mick's softening cock was stretching him in a way that felt alien now that the arousal had ebbed away. But before he could tell Mick off, Snart was there with a wet washcloth, wiping him down. His hand was almost gentle around Barry's oversensitive cock, that intense, narrow-eyed look on his face that he always got when he found a new way to push Barry's boundaries. Barry wished he could stop his Pavlovian response to that look, but it was useless. When Snart reached up to tilt Barry's face towards him, leaning in close to look him in the eye, Barry's protests were already forfeit.

"How about it, Scarlet? You wanna try keeping Mick's dick nice and warm for him tonight?" he drawled, and Barry had closed his eyes and nodded against the mattress, Snart's thumb dragging across his cheek, a possessive little caress.

He hadn't thought it would work. When Mick maneuvered them into a spooning position with his front plastered against Barry's back and one leg flung across Barry's, hot like a furnace against Barry's sweaty skin, Barry had expected them to disentangle eventually and for Mick's cock to slip out of him at some point during the night.

But now it's morning, sunlight filtering in through the blinds of Snart's bedroom window, and they're still in exactly the same position as they were when they fell asleep last night. Except Mick is decidedly less soft now, his morning wood stirring inside of Barry, pressed against places that make heat pool in Barry's gut.

He must have made some kind of sound because Snart's head turns towards him. His eyes are sharp and awake, flicking from Barry's face downwards, lips twisting into a smirk at what he finds.

"Well, look at that. Someone's _up_ early." 

One of these days, Barry will tell Snart to cut out those godawful puns of his. Today, however, is not going to be that day. He contents himself with leveling a half-hearted glare at Snart instead. 

"That's what six hours of constant stimulation will get you," he says in a low voice, trying to fight the flush of embarrassment. Then, pointedly, "What's your excuse?"

It's just a stab in the dark. Snart has the covers drawn up to his chest, too loose over his bent knees to make out any tell-tale tenting over his groin. But, well – Barry _knows_ him. 

Then again, he should probably also have known that Snart has absolutely no shame.

"What can I say? You make an appealing sight, all trapped in place with Mick filling you up so nicely." Snart taxes him with an unabashed once-over. It reminds Barry of the night at the train tracks, of their first negotiation at Saint and Sinners, of lying on the cold, unforgiving asphalt at Ferris Air with Snart's implacable, cold eyes hungrily drinking in his desperation. It's Captain Cold more than Leonard Snart, and it's fucking embarrassing how hot and bordered it gets Barry. Judging by the amused slant of Snart's mouth, he knows it too. "Word of warning, Barry. If you keep wiggling like that, you're gonna wake Mick up."

Right. That's not—Barry isn't sure if that makes him want to try to hold still or move _more_.

Turns out it doesn't matter. 

"'m awake," Mick grumbles from behind him, his voice a sleep-rough rumble that sends a shiver running down Barry's spine. 

One of Mick's large, rough hands runs from Barry's hip up his side in a gesture that feels at the same time appreciative and possessive, and the leg that's wrapped around Barry tightens. 

Barry can feel the cock inside him grow harder. It's unlike anything he ever felt before, no less intense than having a hard dick push into him, but a different kind of stretch without the initial breach. He whimpers when Mick lazily moves his hips, and Barry's eyes flutter shut.

"_Fuck._" It's more like a stuttered breath than an actual word. 

But clearly, it's loud enough that Mick understands him. His chest heaves with silent laughter. "That a request, Red?"

"Pretty sure it was. Right, Barry?"

When Barry opens his eyes again, Snart has turned onto his side, his head propped up on his elbow, watching Barry with a raised eyebrow, like he's actually waiting for an answer. Huh. 

"I'm sorry," Barry snarks back. "But since when do you need me to give you direction?" 

He makes it sound like an insult, the implication that they're – metaphorically speaking – growing soft on him, to hide the fact that he hates it when they make him ask for things. They've always been good at reading his nonverbal cues, knowing when to push and how far is too far, even back when he wasn't being honest with himself or them about how much he wanted it. Especially then.

Snart's eyes narrow and he exchanges a look with Mick over Barry's shoulder. "And here we were just being considerate."

_Bullshit_, Barry wants to say. Snart wouldn't know 'considerate' if it came at him with lightning speed. That's not what this is about and they both know it. But before Barry gets around to telling him where he can shove his fake stab at _consideration_, Mick pulls away just so, only to snap his hips forward right away, driving into Barry with a force that robs him of his words.

He gasps and buries his face in the sheets again as Mick starts fucking him for real. His thrusts are deep and measured, drawn out, so different from the brutal jackhammer rhythm he drilled him with last night. There's enough time between his movements to build up anticipation, those torturous moments when he stalls between one thrust and the next stretching endlessly for Barry. 

He holds his breath and waits for the next slam of Mick's cock, every one of them hitting his prostrate just right.

It's good – it's so fucking good – but it's not _enough_. It gets him hard, it makes his cock leak, it keeps him close to the edge, but he can't come like this. He needs more, needs it harder, faster, needs friction on his cock. If Mick wasn't holding him steady with bruising hands, fingers digging into the flesh on his hip and his shoulder, he'd shift a little so he could hump the mattress, but there's no room to move and his fingers are clenched so tightly in the sheets that he can't will them to let go, even if he thought Snart would let him get away with jerking off.

He doesn't want to beg, but he's close, and every time Mick hits that sweet spot inside him gets him closer to allow the pleas and demands to come shamelessly spilling from his lips. 

Mick pulls out almost completely, lingering for endless seconds before driving back home, the sound of flesh hitting flesh when he bottoms out against Barry's ass loud enough to drown out the noises Barry makes. He almost reached his breaking point, about to humiliate himself by letting out the _harder faster please make me come please please please just let me oh God please_ that he's been trying to keep inside. But then, miraculously, a hand closes around his cock. 

He doesn't need to open his eyes to know it's Snart; he'd always recognize those long, slender, magically nimble fingers and how they feel against his skin, calluses palpable despite the slickness of the lube Snart must have coated his hand with.

"Look at me," Snart says, but Barry ignores him, breathing into the bed sheet as Mick keeps pushing into him and Snart's hand moves up and down his cock, the simultaneous stimulation deliciously distracting.

"Barry. Look at me, or I'm gonna stop."

Snart's warning is sharp, cutting through the air like a whiplash, and Barry knows he means it. He doesn't want those skillful fingers to leave his cock, so he reluctantly twists his head towards Snart and opens his eyes. 

Snart looks cool and unruffled as ever, even if Barry can see his other hand moving beneath the covers, jacking himself with the same rhythm as he pulls on Barry's cock, the same up and down, timed just right, and something about that is so damn hot, almost as intimate as their cocks rubbing against one another. 

"You want it so badly, don't you?" Snart taunts, but there's a breathless little edge in his tone that belies his nonchalance

Barry bites his lip and fights against the urge to close his eyes again. Snart wants him to look at him, so that's what he does. He holds that unwavering, pale blue gaze that always seems to look right into the most vulnerable, the most desperately hidden parts of him and lets himself get lost in it, even when Mick's thrust get faster and his hot breath against Barry's neck comes harder, even when Snart's hand on his cock speeds up and adds a vicious little upstroke that makes Barry keen and rip at the sheets.

He comes before Mick does, spilling all over Snart's hand and clenching around Mick whose rhythm stutters. He grunts and spills into Barry, his fingers digging deeper into Barry's skin, hard enough to mark him, probably, even if the bruises never last. 

It takes Barry's attention off Snart for a moment, too focused on the blissful afterglow of his own orgasm, on Mick's punishing grip and the way his cock spurts inside of him. When he turns to Snart again, he's lying back against the pillow, breath almost steady again, and Barry hates that he missed the chance to watch him come. One day, he will see Snart lose that maddening cool of his, one day he'll _make him_ come undone, get under his skin in the same way Snart gets under his. 

"Now that's a good way to start the day," Snart says with a smirk, and Barry can't help but agree.

Behind him, Mick grunts. "I gotta pee."

There's a moment when Barry is too distracted contemplating Snart to wonder why Mick feels the need to announce this instead of just pulling out and going to the bathroom.

It's only Snart's reaction that makes alarm signals go off in the back of his head: the way Snart suddenly sits up, gaze sharpening, focused on Mick like Mick just suggested the heist of the year. Except Mick only said— 

Barry's head snaps around to Mick, who's still buried deep inside of him.

"You—_What?_" He stumbles over his words, because Mick can't fucking mean what Barry thinks he means. "No! I don't—"

He doesn't get further than that. Snart grabs his chin, pulling Barry back around to face him. His eyes are darker than before, like the mere idea of Mick using Barry like this gets him hotter than jerking off ever could. "Thought you didn't want us to take directions from you." 

Barry's hackles rise at Snart twisting his words like that. He didn't mean it like that. He doesn't know what he meant, but he knows he doesn't want this, and he shakes his head in protest.

Snart's gaze locks with Barry's, and Barry couldn't look away even if he tried.

"You can take it," Snart tells him, his tone firm, somewhere between a command and a statement of fact. His grip on Barry's chin is unrelenting, and the part of Barry that was going to object falls silent.

He swallows against the lump in his throat. Snart tracks the movement with his gaze, then his eyes flicker towards Mick and he nods once, almost imperceptibly. Barry's stomach twists, queasy with fear and humiliation and anticipation and arousal, and the wait is almost unbearable.

"Relax, Red," Mick mutters, a gruff order that's probably meant to be reassuring. 

He grabs Barry by the hips and pulls him closer, as if there was any significant amount of space between them to begin with, and then he groans and, finally, lets go. 

It doesn't feel like much, not really. Just wetness and warmth and a slowly built of pressure, like Barry's too full. It's just—The very _thought of it_. The knowledge that Mick is pissing inside of him. That Barry is _letting him_. It's impossibly degrading and filthy, and Barry hates it and hates how much he wants it and how much he loves the rush of humiliation.

"So greedy," Snart says, his voice a pleased, vicious drawl. "Taking anything Mick gives you."

His eyes are hungry and gleaming with satisfaction as he reaches down. Barry jumps when he feels Snart's fingers on his cock.

He's hard again. That's the most damning thing, almost, that he can't even hide how much he gets off on being pushed to his limits and beyond. He shakes his head, helpless denial neither Snart nor he himself believe.

The steady flow of piss hasn't stopped, filling him up more and more until it's past the point of comfortable, not with two loads of Mick's cum already inside of him. It doesn't make his erection wane, though, and Snart keeps stoking him, watching Barry intently as he guides him towards his second orgasm of the morning with sure, expert touches.

It's almost painful when Barry comes again, harsher than the first time, a sound dying on his lips that could have been a curse or a name. His cock feels raw and his mind whitens out for what could be a nanosecond or five minutes.

Through the post-orgasmic haze, he dimly notices Mick pulling out, dragging against the sore rim of his hole, and before he can worry how that's going to work out, Snart reaches behind himself and produces a plug he's handing to Mick who works it into Barry's ass. Both of them ignore Barry's whine when the unrelenting plastic pushes into him. It's much smaller than Mick's cock, but it feels massive and foreign, only adding to the weird, full sensation.

Snart's hand against Barry's cheek directs Barry's attention towards him again. His gaze is alert, watchful. Anyone else, Barry would almost call it concerned. 

"Too much?" 

Yes. Maybe. No. 

Barry leans forward, letting himself sag against Snart, burying his face in the crook of the other man's neck and shaking his head.

"'m good," he mutters. It's all he can manage, trusting Snart to understand. Just one more thing to trust them with. It's almost an afterthought, after everything else.

Snart's hand settles against the nape of his neck, giving him a squeeze. Firm. Reassuring. 

Barry feels drained and floaty, but not in a bad way. He wants to fall right back asleep, but he knows he should really get up and go to the bathroom to get himself cleaned up, even if the idea of moving is thoroughly unappealing.

Snart lets his fingers tangle in the sweat-matted hair at the back of Barry's head, nails soothingly scraping over his scalp, and Barry makes an embarrassing little noise that probably makes him sound like a purring cat. "How about Mick runs you a bath? It's the least he can do, after you've been so _accommodating_." 

Jesus. Snart really has a talent to make the most innocuous words sound incredibly filthy. It makes Barry laugh quietly into Snart's shoulder. 

Somewhere behind him, Mick grunts in what Barry can only assume is agreement or amusement or some mixture of both. The mattress squeaks when he gets up, floorboards creaking under his bare feet as he pads into the bathroom.

"If you're hoping for kinky bathtub sex, you're out of luck," Barry warns, wincing at how slurred his words are. 

Snart hums. It sound far too speculative and considering for Barry's liking, and he musters the strength to pull back a little and try to school his face into a forbidding glare. It's probably not as glowering as he intents, because Snart laughs. Not his usual chuckle, but that rare, genuine laughter of his, warm and carefree, the one that only comes out when he's relaxed and unburdened. 

"Some other time, then." 

He draws Barry forward into a kiss, not-quite-chaste but more affirmation than enticement. It's deep and fond and possessive. It makes Barry look forward to that other time Snart hinted at, and all the other times that are going to follow.

End


End file.
